About them reporters circled. The foreman was relating that they had been practically unanimous for conviction, but that one of them, the twelfth, had insisted so obstinately on the poverty of the evidence that with him finally they had voted to acquit. "But where is he?" the foreman interrupted himself to ask. "Where is the twelfth juror? Where is Durand?" Then only was it seen that he was still in the box, crouching there, his face ashen where it was not violet, a hand held to his side. In a moment he was surrounded. To those nearest he looked and gasped. "Give him some brandy," a reporter suggested. But now into the little group Peacock had forced his way. Orr edged nearer. The juror gasped again. "I am dying," he groaned. "It is my heart. Send for a priest. I killed him. I am the man." Skeptically Peacock sniffed. "You killed whom?" "He is delirious," the reporter exclaimed. "I killed him," Durand repeated. "But whom? And why?" Peacock, bending a bit, impressed in spite of himself, inquired. Slowly, laboriously, painfully at that, Durand from a pocket drew a picture. "Curse him," he muttered. "There he is. He disgraced my _perle_, my daughter Marie, but she wrote me where to find him and I did; I found him in the park and I shot him there, through the head, through the h-head," he stammered and clutched at his heart. From his hand the picture had slipped. Orr edged closer, stooped for it, recovered it, then in heightening wonder stared. The picture was a colored photograph that displayed the chiseled features, wonderful eyes and thin black mustache of one whom he had known. Above it was written "Marie's Husband." "It is Loftus," he exclaimed. Peacock wheeled. "Loftus," he cried. Instantly to question further, he turned to the juror again. But even as he turned he saw that the trial was over. Spasmodically the man's mouth had twitched, his head had fallen; before a higher court he had gone. Peacock, the marvel of it upon him, turned anew to Orr. Foes while the battle was raging, the two men now were like the commandants of opposing forces who, the conflict ended, meet and embrace. Peacock rubbed his eyes. "What this confession means, Orr, you as well as I appreciate." Instinctively his voice had sunk into that undertone which Death, when it comes, exacts. "Yes," he continued, "Annandale is not merely acquitted, he is cleared. For that, believe me, I am glad. As for Loftus, he got from that dead father only what he deserved." To this Orr, about whom the marvel of it all still also clung, assented. "Justice," he replied, "is rarely human, but sometimes it is divine." He would have said more perhaps, but Annandale was approaching. Obviously the latter was as yet wholly unaware of this new climax to his case. He was looking doubtfully around.